Music and Masks
by MurderousPen
Summary: No, he would return to the untouched bowels of the opera, his true home, his sanctuary. He would return and compose his music, and press all thoughts of her from his mind.


**Right, well, this is my first Phanfic, and needless to say, I'm extremely nervous. So please, don't Punjab me, yeah? Nah, I'm sure you're all very lovely people. :3 Anyway, this is yet another Erik/OC phic, though this, unlike the others, will probably be awful. However, I shall not let this discourage me (too much)! Well, now that that awkward bit of speech making is through, I'm obligated to say that I own absolutely nothing (other than a few unhealthy obsessions with various Phantoms, but who doesn't?) Oh, and I find the need to mention I do not speak French, nor do I know any French people, nor have I been to France (unfortunately). Honestly, the only French I know is what I encounter in other Phics. So, if I misuse any markings, or if I've gotten the translation wrong on something (hopefully Google Translate will suffice, yet I hate my doubts), please, **_**please, **_**let me know. **

**So…yeah…**

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><p>He stood in the ruined doorway of the once-beautiful Opera Populairè. Back in its golden days, the opera house was the most popular place in France, with its beautiful décor and incredible performers. Now, the building stood an empty shell of what it used to be, a grotesque guard over the desolate, dingy streets. The roof was nigh completely gone, only a few lengths of charred wood covering the building. The insides were dark and sooty, nearly every surface coated in a thick layer of black ash and dust. The tapestries hung in scorched tatters, almost all of the wallpaper licked away by the flames that consumed the opera house a year past.<p>

A choked sound of grief escaped the man's throat, yet he forced himself to move on, to trudge through the ruins until he reached the main auditorium. The hem of his cloak drug across the ground, sweeping away his footsteps as he trudged along. His black boots crunched over the remnants of broken vases, the noises causing him to cringe and tread more carefully. His keen, golden-brown eyes surveyed the areas around him as he walked. As of yet, he had not seen any of his secret passages revealed; how it was so, he would never understand, yet he was thankful that those things remained his own, even as he lost everything else. The moonlight illuminated his path to the main stage and auditorium, as if it wanted him to hurry and see the damage that he inflicted upon his precious theatre. And, as he came to stand upon the stage - being wary of the burned, weakened planks of wood - he saw how much damage he had inflicted on the thing that he loved second best.

Over half of the seats in the house had been devastated, the padding burned away and the wood blackened. Half-burnt masks littered the floor, along with once-gleaming-now-dull bits of dirtied crystal from the shattered chandelier. The curtains were nigh completely gone, the only parts undamaged being the very tops of the fabric, the bits that attached to the walls. The boxes were very nearly destroyed, even his own Box Five. The candleholders had been knocked to the ground, the gold covered by ashes and soot, barely glimmering in the moon's silvery light. The orchestra pit was destroyed; there was no use in even looking down at it.

On stage, the set for_ Don Juan Triumphant_ had also been licked at by the flames, nearly all of it demolished save for his clever escape route. Either most of the stage had burned away or the wood had been seared until its integrity was unsound. However, most of the downstage area was intact, allowing him to stand without having to question the structural soundness of the wood beneath him. Christine's basket lay forgotten, downstage right. Oh, how he longed to touch what she once held to her bosom! How he longed to clutch the woven object to his breast and protect it as if it were Christine! However, he would not stoop so low; she had betrayed him, now he must live on. She was not his, and she would never be his, and vice versa. So he resisted, choosing to stare out over the ruins of the opera house, _his_ opera house. His opera house that he had destroyed.

The moon cast her silvery rays upon the ruined stage and the desolate creature that stood upon it. Her light struck him on the right side, causing his ivory mask to stand stark against his slightly dishevelled ebony hair whilst casting the unmarred side of his face into shadow, completely obscuring it save for the shine one strange golden eye. As that eye and its companion took in their surroundings, a tear slid out from under the white mask, dropping down onto the stage below him. He blinked once, twice, then turned on his heel and walked away, shoulders slumped and eyes glued to the floor. Fire was supposed to purify, refine, yet it only served to ravage and destroy, merciless and raging, sparing no one from its vicious wrath. Instead of purification, there was only destruction; instead of refining, there was only decimation. Fire had destroyed his theatre, just as it seemed to have destroyed his life when hellfire had reached into his mother's womb and marred his forming face. Fire had only ever injured him, especially the flames of determination and passion in _her_ eyes.

_No! _He would not think of her, and her Pandora-esque ways. No, he would return to the untouched bowels of the opera, his true home, his sanctuary. He would return and compose his music, and press all thoughts of _her_ from his mind. He would return and live the rest of his damnably long life in peace, surrounded by his music and his masks.

So with a chilling smile twisting his lips, that is exactly what he did.

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><p><strong>Right, well that was the prologue, despite its length. I'm afraid it's not very good, but kudos to you if you've trudged through it! Did you like it? Did you hate it? Do you want to Punjab me? Well, send me a review and let me know! (: <strong>

**- MP**


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